


18) After the storm breaks

by Munnin



Series: Hugin Chronicles [18]
Category: Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003) - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 19:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11585142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Munnin/pseuds/Munnin
Summary: Bringing their lost brothers to safety, the squad come down in their own ways.





	18) After the storm breaks

**Author's Note:**

> Red Mist Squad based on characters created by Joe Hogan for the [ The Siren of Dathomir](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3z0kyf53Ds) and [ Panic Over Muunilinst ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I3-_EnhMEDE). Stolen, run away with, and abused with his permission.
> 
> The Grey Jedi and Odd Squads are original characters based on members of the CSWCC. The original Argument’s End series can be found [here](http://munnin.dreamwidth.org/tag/grey+jedi+verse).

The flight back to the Argument’s End was one of the longest Wrathor had ever experienced. Fernie and Linc called ahead for medical support, having done everything they could to stabilise Crispy and Hugin, 

Or at least the person who use to be Hugin. 

Wrathor barely recognised the face of the man in the stretcher. It wasn’t the skin-paint that followed the lines of his armour, or the scars that hadn’t been there before. 

It was something else. 

Something that had changed him, deeper than skin. Something that wasn’t Hugin. 

It was this Tahl person. 

It was Tahl’s experiences, Tahl’s life that shaped that face. Not Hugin’s.

And for some reason Wrathor couldn’t name, that enraged him. 

Tahl had taken Hugin away from them. And there was nothing Wrathor could do about it.

It was what Crispy had seen, what had fuelled the lieutenant’s uncharacteristic mood-swings since Malastare. 

That impotent rage now boiled in Wrathor’s heart as they flew back to the Argument’s End. And he knew it would make the comedown after the mission all the worst. 

He held out, focusing on the need to see the mission though – helping Ridley carry Crispy down the ramp and onto a grav-lifter as Gleeb and Rezz did the same with Hugin. 

Hugin. Tahl. 

The twinned names kept bouncing back and forth in Wrathor’s head. The identity of the blood-soaked man never quite resolving in his head, flicking like a glitching heads-up display. 

Pretty soon the End’s trauma team took over, speaking a medical shorthand only Fernie truly understood. 

Fordo paused a moment, standing halfway between his squad and the retreating medical party. “Everyone kit down and debrief. There’s nothing more we can do for now.” In that moment, his helmet off and his face uncovered, Fordo looked as lost as Wrathor felt. “I’ll keep you up to date.” Their captain promised, following the medical team and leaving the squad clustered around the ship.

Wrathor looked down at his gloved hands, seeing the smears of blood and dirt, still smelling smoke in his nostrils. His hands won’t shaking yet, but he knew they would be soon. He could feel the shadows of doubt stalking along his muscles and nerves along with fatigue. 

The others seem to feel it too. Perhaps not the same post-mission low that clawed at Wrathor, but a shared feeling of helplessness. Of impotency. There was nothing they could do for either their battered lieutenant who had almost seemed unaware of his own injures. Or the lost brother he had held, who’s left arm had been nothing but tatters of cloth and flesh.

So they stood there, staring at each other, expressions mirrored. 

It was Skate who broke the spell, his own face tight with exhaustion. “The ship needs repairs. We tore sections of the outer plating on the rocks.” His training, his nature focusing in on the practical. The immediate. The solvable. 

“Then we do that.” Jat agreed, his usually calm tone notably stained. “But first we kit down, like the captain said. Hit the freshers, get some food, then regroup back here.”

It was close enough like an order to knock them out of the stupefy that held them there. 

Halfway through kitting down in the bunk room, the shakes started in earnest. And worse than ever before. Wrathor’s ab-plate cluttered to the floor, his fingers spasming. 

He started to panic, his heart racing and his breathing spiking. The others would see. See his weakness, his failure. They’d drive him out. There was no place in the Squad for nulls.

Someone took his hands, whispering to him, guiding his breathing to a slow and steady rhythm. Other hands reached for the straps of his armour, opening snaps and buckles. 

It was Linc’s voice, soft and calm, that finally managed to reach him over the roar of blood in his ears. “Into the fresher now, Wrath. It’s okay. We’re all here with you.”

They guided him onto the communal fresher; the decadent water shower, rather than just the standard sonic cleaner they were use to. 

It didn’t seem at all strange to be naked around the rest of the squad. All clones were equipped the same, after all. But having his brothers undress him, guide him under the warm spray, was an odd sensation. Odd, but comforting. Like knowing they had his back in battle. 

And it helped; the shakes starting to ease. Wrathor’s focus returned slowly as he came down, letting himself auto-pilot into the trained and familiar routines of washing and injury check. 

Gleeb threw some insult at Ridley, which swiftly devolved into the sort of post mission horse-play the recons needed. In the enclosed space of the freshers, it swiftly got out of hand. Their antics forced the others to either join in or get caught in the crossfire. 

Wrathor took up a towel, twisting it tight and joined in the game, leaving Greeb with a bright welt across his ribs. 

For a while, they laughed and played. And for a while at least, they didn’t have to think about what they’d lost or how little they could do about it.


End file.
